LITTLE CLASSICS
EDITED BY
ROSSITER JOHNSON
STORIES OF
INTELLECT
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BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1914
COPYRIGHT, 1874, BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN _E. Bulwer Lytton_ 7
D’OUTRE MORT _Harriet Prescott Spofford_ 60
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER _Edgar Allan Poe_ 91
CHOPS THE DWARF _Charles Dickens_ 118
WAKEFIELD _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 134
MURDER, CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE
FINE ARTS _Thomas De Quincey_ 147
THE CAPTAIN’S STORY _Rebecca Harding Davis_ 187
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THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN.
BY E. BULWER LYTTON.
A friend of mine, who is a man of letters and a philosopher, said to me
one day, as if between jest and earnest, “Fancy! since we last met I
have discovered a haunted house in the midst of London.”
“Really haunted? and by what,--ghosts?”
“Well, I can’t answer these questions; all I know is this: six weeks ago
I and my wife were in search of a furnished apartment. Passing a quiet
street, we saw on the window of one of the houses a bill, ‘Apartments
Furnished.’ The situation suited us; we entered the house, liked the
rooms, engaged them by the week, and left them the third day. No power
on earth could have reconciled my wife to stay longer; and I don’t
wonder at it.”
“What did you see?”
“Excuse me; I have no desire to be ridiculed as a superstitious dreamer,
nor, on the other hand, could I ask you to accept on my affirmation what
you would hold to be incredible, without the evidence of your own
senses. Let me only say this: it was not so much what we saw or heard
(in which you might fairly suppose that we were the dupes of our own
excited fancy, or the victims of imposture in others) that drove us
away, as it was an undefinable terror which seized both of us whenever
we passed by the door of a certain unfurnished room, in which we neither
saw nor heard anything; and the strangest marvel of all was, that for
once in my life I agreed with my wife, silly woman though she be, and
allowed after the third night that it was impossible to stay a fourth in
that house. Accordingly, on the fourth morning I summoned the woman who
kept the house and attended on us, and told her that the rooms did not
quite suit us, and we would not stay out our week. She said dryly, ‘I
know why; you have stayed longer than any other lodger. Few ever stayed
a second night; none before you a third. But I take it they have been
very kind to you.’
“‘They,--who?’ I asked, affecting a smile.
“‘Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they are; I don’t mind them; I
remember them many years ago, when I lived in this house not as a
servant; but I know they will be the death of me some day. I don’t
care,--I’m old and must die soon anyhow; and then I shall be with them,
and in this house still.’ The woman spoke with so dreary a calmness,
that really it was a sort of awe that prevented my conversing with her
further. I paid for my week, and too happy were I and my wife to get off
so cheaply.”
“You excite my curiosity,” said I; “nothing I should like better than
to sleep in a haunted house. Pray give me the address of the one which
you left so ignominiously.”
My friend gave me the address; and when we parted I walked straight
toward the house thus indicated.
It is situated on the north side of Oxford Street, in a dull but
respectable thoroughfare. I found the house shut up; no bill at the
window, and no response to my knock. As I was turning away, a beer-boy,
collecting pewter pots at the neighboring areas, said to me, “Do you
want any one at that house, sir?”
“Yes, I heard it was to be let.”
“Let! Why, the woman who kept it is dead; has been dead these three
weeks; and no one can be found to stay there, though Mr. J---- offered
ever so much. He offered mother, who chars for him, £1 a week just to
open and shut the windows, and she would not.”
“Would not! and why?”
“The house is haunted; and the old woman who kept it was found dead in
her bed with her eyes wide open. They say the Devil strangled her.”
“Pooh! You speak of Mr. J----. Is he the owner of the house?”
“Yes.”
“Where does he live?”
“In G---- Street, No.--.”
“What is he?--in any business?”
“No, sir; nothing particular; a single gentleman.”
I gave the pot-boy the gratuity earned by his liberal information, and
proceeded to Mr. J---- in G---- Street, which was close by the street
that boasted the haunted house. I was lucky enough to find Mr. J---- at
home; an elderly man with intelligent countenance and prepossessing
manners.
I communicated my name and my business frankly. I said I heard the house
was considered to be haunted; that I had a strong desire to examine a
house with so equivocal a reputation; that I should be greatly obliged
if he would allow me to hire it, though only for a night. I was willing
to pay for that privilege whatever he might be inclined to ask. “Sir,”
said Mr. J---- with great courtesy, “the house is at your service for as
short or as long a time as you please. Rent is out of the question; the
obligation will be on my side, should you be able to discover the cause
of the strange phenomena which at present deprive it of all value. I
cannot let it, for I cannot even get a servant to keep it in order or
answer the door. Unluckily, the house is haunted, if I may use that
expression, not only by night but by day; though at night the
disturbances are of a more unpleasant and sometimes of a more alarming
character. The poor old woman who died in it three weeks ago was a
pauper whom I took out of a workhouse; for in her childhood she had been
known to some of my family, and had once been in such good circumstances
that she had rented that house of my uncle. She was a woman of superior
education and strong mind, and was the only person I could ever induce
to remain in the house. Indeed, since her death, which was sudden, and
the coroner’s inquest, which gave it a notoriety in the neighborhood, I
have so despaired of finding any person to take charge of it, much more
a tenant, that I would willingly let it rent free for a year to any one
who would pay its rates and taxes.”
“How long ago did the house acquire this character?”
“That I can scarcely tell you, but many years since; the old woman I
spoke of said it was haunted when she rented it, between thirty and
forty years ago. The fact is, that my life has been spent in the East
Indies, and in the civil service of the company. I returned to England
last year, on inheriting the fortune of an uncle, amongst whose
possessions was the house in question. I found it shut up and
uninhabited. I was told that it was haunted, and no one would inhabit
it. I smiled at what seemed to me so idle a story. I spent some money in
repainting and roofing it, added to its old-fashioned furniture a few
modern articles, advertised it, and obtained a lodger for a year. He was
a colonel retired on half pay. He came in with his family, a son and a
daughter, and four or five servants; they all left the house the next
day; and although they deponed that they had all seen something
different, that something was equally terrible to all. I really could
not in conscience sue, or even blame, the colonel for breach of
agreement. Then I put in the old woman I have spoken of, and she was
empowered to let the house in apartments. I never had one lodger who
stayed more than three days. I do not tell you their stories; to no two
lodgers have exactly the same phenomena been repeated. It is better that
you should judge for yourself, than enter the house with an imagination
influenced by previous narratives; only be prepared to see and to hear
something or other, and take whatever precautions you yourself please.”
“Have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass a night in that house?”
“Yes; I passed, not a night, but three hours in broad daylight alone in
that house. My curiosity is not satisfied, but it is quenched. I have no
desire to renew the experiment. You cannot complain, you see, sir, that
I am not sufficiently candid; and unless your interest be exceedingly
eager and your nerves unusually strong, I honestly add that I advise you
_not_ to pass a night in that house.”
“My interest _is_ exceedingly keen,” said I; “and though only a coward
will boast of his nerves in situations wholly unfamiliar to him, yet my
nerves have been seasoned in such variety of danger that I have the
right to rely on them, even in a haunted house.”
Mr. J---- said very little more; he took the keys of the house out of
his bureau, and gave them to me; and, thanking him cordially for his
frankness and his urbane concession to my wish, I carried off my prize.
Impatient for the experiment, as soon as I reached home I summoned my
confidential servant,--a young man of gay spirits, fearless temper, and
as free from superstitious prejudice as any one I could think of.
“F----,” said I, “you remember in Germany how disappointed we were at
not finding a ghost in that old castle, which was said to be haunted by
a headless apparition? Well, I have heard of a house in London which, I
have reason to hope, is decidedly haunted. I mean to sleep there
to-night. From what I hear, there is no doubt that something will allow
itself to be seen or to be heard,--something perhaps excessively
horrible. Do you think, if I take you with me, I may rely on your
presence of mind, whatever may happen?”
“O sir! pray trust me!” said he, grinning with delight.
“Very well, then, here are the keys of the house; this is the address.
Go now, select for me any bedroom you please; and since the house has
not been inhabited for weeks, make up a good fire, air the bed well,
see, of course, that there are candles as well as fuel. Take with you my
revolver and my dagger,--so much for my weapons,--arm yourself equally
well; and if we are not a match for a dozen ghosts, we shall be but a
sorry couple of Englishmen.”
I was engaged for the rest of the day on business so urgent that I had
not leisure to think much on the nocturnal adventure to which I had
plighted my honor. I dined alone and very late, and while dining read,
as is my habit. The volume I selected was one of Macaulay’s essays. I
thought to myself that I would take the book with me; there was so much
of healthfulness in the style, and practical life in the subjects, that
it would serve as an antidote against the influences of superstitious
fancy.
Accordingly, about half past nine, I put the book into my pocket, and
strolled leisurely towards the haunted house. I took with me a favorite
dog; an exceedingly sharp, bold, and vigilant bull-terrier, a dog fond
of prowling about strange ghostly corners and passages at night in
search of rats, a dog of dogs for a ghost.
It was a summer night, but chilly, the sky somewhat gloomy and overcast;
still there was a moon,--faint and sickly, but still a moon; and if the
clouds permitted, after midnight it would be brighter.
I reached the house, knocked, and my servant opened with a cheerful
smile.
“All right, sir, and very comfortable.”
“Oh!” said I, rather disappointed; “have you not seen nor heard anything
remarkable?”
“Well, sir, I must own I have heard something queer.”
“What?--what?”
“The sound of feet pattering behind me; and once or twice small noises
like whispers close at my ear; nothing more.”
“You are not at all frightened?”
“I! not a bit of it, sir!” And the man’s bold look reassured me on one
point, namely, that, happen what might, he would not desert me.
We were in the hall, the street door closed, and my attention was now
drawn to my dog. He had at first run in eagerly enough, but had sneaked
back to the door, and was scratching and whining to get out. After I had
patted him on the head and encouraged him gently, the dog seemed to
reconcile himself to the situation, and followed me and F---- through
the house, but keeping close at my heels, instead of hurrying
inquisitively in advance, which was his usual and normal habit in all
strange places. We first visited the subterranean apartments, the
kitchen and other offices, and especially the cellars, in which last
were two or three bottles of wine still left in a bin, covered with
cobwebs, and evidently, by their appearance, undisturbed for many years.
It was clear that the ghosts were not winebibbers. For the rest, we
discovered nothing of interest. There was a gloomy little back yard,
with very high walls. The stones of this yard were very damp; and what
with the damp, and what with the dust and smoke-grime on the pavement,
our feet left a slight impression where we passed. And now appeared the
first strange phenomenon witnessed by myself in this strange abode. I
saw, just before me, the print of a foot suddenly form itself, as it
were. I stopped, caught hold of my servant, and pointed to it. In
advance of that footprint as suddenly dropped another. We both saw it. I
advanced quickly to the place; the footprint kept advancing before me; a
small footprint,--the foot of a child; the impression was too faint
thoroughly to distinguish the shape, but it seemed to us both that it
was the print of a naked foot. This phenomenon ceased when we arrived at
the opposite wall, nor did it repeat itself when we returned. We
remounted the stairs, and entered the rooms on the ground-floor,--a
dining-parlor, a small back parlor, and a still smaller third room, that
had probably been appropriated to a footman,--all still as death. We
then visited the drawing-rooms, which seemed fresh and new. In the front
room I seated myself in an arm-chair. F---- placed on the table the
candlestick with which he had lighted us. I told him to shut the door.
As he turned to do so, a chair opposite to me moved from the wall
quickly and noiselessly, and dropped itself about a yard from my own
chair, immediately fronting it.
“Why, this is better than the turning tables,” said I, with a
half-laugh; and as I laughed, my dog put back his head and howled.
F----, coming back, had not observed the movement of the chair. He
employed himself now in stilling the dog. I continued to gaze on the
chair, and fancied I saw on it a pale, blue, misty outline of a human
figure; but an outline so indistinct that I could only distrust my own
vision. The dog was now quiet.
“Put back the chair opposite to me,” said I to F----, “put it back to
the wall.”
F---- obeyed. “Was that you, sir?” said he, turning abruptly.
“I,--what?”
“Why, something struck me. I felt it sharply on the shoulder, just
here.”
“No,” said I; “but we have jugglers present; and though we may not
discover their tricks, we shall catch _them_ before they frighten us.”
We did not stay long in the drawing-rooms; in fact, they felt so damp
and so chilly that I was glad to get to the fire up stairs. We locked
the doors of the drawing-rooms,--a precaution which, I should observe,
we had taken with all the rooms we had searched below. The bedroom my
servant had selected for me was the best on the floor; a large one, with
two windows fronting the street. The four-posted bed, which took up no
inconsiderable space, was opposite to the fire, which burned clear and
bright; a door in the wall to the left, between the bed and the window,
communicated with the room which my servant appropriated to himself.
This last was a small room with a sofa-bed, and had no communication
with the landing-place; no other door but that which conducted to the
bedroom I was to occupy. On either side of my fireplace was a cupboard,
without locks, flush with the wall, and covered with the same
dull-brown paper. We examined these cupboards; only hooks to suspend
female dresses,--nothing else. We sounded the walls; evidently
solid,--the outer walls of the building. Having finished the survey of
these apartments, warmed myself a few moments, and lighted my cigar, I
then, still accompanied by F----, went forth to complete my reconnoitre.
In the landing-place there was another door; it was closed firmly.
“Sir,” said my servant in surprise, “I unlocked this door with all the
others when I first came; it cannot have got locked from the inside, for
it is a--”
Before he had finished his sentence, the door, which neither of us then
was touching, opened quietly of itself. We looked at each other a single
instant. The same thought seized both; some human agency might be
detected here. I rushed in first, my servant followed. A small, blank,
dreary room without furniture, a few empty boxes and hampers in a
corner, a small window, the shutters closed,--not even a fireplace,--no
other door but that by which we had entered, no carpet on the floor, and
the floor seemed very old, uneven, worm-eaten, mended here and there, as
was shown by the whiter patches on the wood; but no living being, and no
visible place in which a living being could have hidden. As we stood
gazing round, the door by which we had entered closed as quietly as it
had before opened; we were imprisoned.
For the first time I felt a creep of undefinable horror. Not so my
servant. “Why, they don’t think to trap us, sir; I could break that
trumpery door with a kick of my foot.”
“Try first if it will open to your hand,” said I, shaking off the vague
apprehension that had seized me, “while I open the shutters and see what
is without.”
I unbarred the shutters: the window looked on the little back yard I
have before described; there was no ledge without, nothing but sheer
descent. No man getting out of that window would have found any footing
till he had fallen on the stones below.
F---- meanwhile was vainly attempting to open the door. He now turned
round to me and asked my permission to use force. And I should here
state, in justice to the servant, that, far from evincing any
superstitious terror, his nerve, composure, and even gayety amidst
circumstances so extraordinary, compelled my admiration, and made me
congratulate myself on having secured a companion in every way fitted to
the occasion. I willingly gave him the permission he required. But,
though he was a remarkably strong man, his force was as idle as his
milder efforts; the door did not even shake to his stoutest kick.
Breathless and panting, he desisted. I then tried the door myself,
equally in vain. As I ceased from the effort, again that creep of horror
came over me; but this time it was more cold and stubborn. I felt as if
some strange and ghastly exhalation were rising from the chinks of that
rugged floor and filling the atmosphere with a venomous influence
hostile to human life. The door now very slowly and quietly opened as of
its own accord. We precipitated ourselves into the landing-place. We
both saw a large, pale light--as large as the human figure, but
shapeless and unsubstantial--move before us and ascend the stairs that
led from the landing into the attics. I followed the light, and my
servant followed me. It entered, to the right of the landing, a small
garret, of which the door stood open. I entered in the same instant. The
light then collapsed into a small globule, exceedingly brilliant and
vivid; rested a moment on a bed in the corner, quivered, and vanished.
We approached the bed and examined it,--a half-tester, such as is
commonly found in attics devoted to servants. On the drawers that stood
near it we perceived an old faded silk kerchief, with the needle still
left in the rent half repaired. The kerchief was covered with dust;
probably it had belonged to the old woman who had last died in that
house, and this might have been her sleeping-room. I had sufficient
curiosity to open the drawers; there were a few odds and ends of female
dress, and two letters tied round with a narrow ribbon of faded yellow.
I took the liberty to possess myself of the letters. We found nothing
else in the room worth noticing, nor did the light reappear; but we
distinctly heard, as we turned to go, a pattering footfall on the floor
just before us. We went through the other attics (in all four), the
footfall still preceding us. Nothing to be seen, nothing but the
footfall heard. I had the letters in my hand; just as I was descending
the stairs I distinctly felt my wrist seized, and a faint, soft effort
made to draw the letters from my clasp. I only held them the more
tightly, and the effort ceased.
We regained the bedchamber appropriated to myself, and I then remarked
that my dog had not followed us when we had left it. He was thrusting
himself close to the fire and trembling. I was impatient to examine the
letters; and while I read them my servant opened a little box in which
he had deposited the weapons I had ordered him to bring, took them out,
placed them on a table close at my bed-head, and then occupied himself
in soothing the dog, who, however, seemed to heed him very little.
The letters were short; they were dated,--the dates exactly thirty-five
years ago. They were evidently from a lover to his mistress, or a
husband to some young wife. Not only the terms of expression, but a
distinct reference to a former voyage indicated the writer to have been
a seafarer. The spelling and handwriting were those of a man imperfectly
educated; but still the language itself was forcible. In the expressions
of endearment there was a kind of rough, wild love; but here and there
were dark unintelligible hints at some secret not of love,--some secret
that seemed of crime. “We ought to love each other,” was one of the
sentences I remember, “for how every one else would execrate us if all
was known.” Again: “Don’t let any one be in the same room with you at
night,--you talk in your sleep.” And again: “What’s done can’t be
undone: and I tell you there’s nothing against us, unless the dead could
come to life.” Here was interlined, in a better handwriting (a
female’s), “They do!” At the end of the letter latest in date the same
female hand had written these words: “Lost at sea the 4th of June, the
same day as--”
I put down the letters, and began to muse over their contents.
Fearing, however, that the train of thought into which I fell might
unsteady my nerves, I fully determined to keep my mind in a fit state to
cope with whatever of marvellous the advancing night might bring forth.
I roused myself, laid the letters on the table, stirred up the fire,
which was still bright and cheering, and opened my volume of Macaulay. I
read quietly enough, till about half past eleven. I then threw myself
dressed upon the bed, and told my servant he might retire to his own
room, but must keep himself awake. I bade him leave open the doors
between the two rooms. Thus, alone, I kept two candles burning on the
table by my bed-head. I placed my watch beside the weapons, and calmly
resumed my Macaulay. Opposite to me the fire burned clear; and on the
hearth-rug, seemingly asleep, lay the dog. In about twenty minutes I
felt an exceedingly cold air pass by my cheek, like a sudden draught. I
fancied the door to my right, communicating with the landing-place, must
have got open; but no, it was closed. I then turned my glance to the
left, and saw the flame of the candles violently swayed as by a wind. At
the same moment the watch beside the revolver softly slid from the
table,--softly, softly,--no visible hand,--it was gone. I sprang up,
seizing the revolver with the one hand, the dagger with the other: I was
not willing that my weapons should share the fate of the watch. Thus
armed, I looked round the floor: no sign of the watch. Three slow, loud,
distinct knocks were now heard at the bed-head; my servant called out,
“Is that you, sir?”
“No; be on your guard.”
The dog now roused himself and sat on his haunches, his ears moving
quickly backward and forward. He kept his eye fixed on me with a look so
strange that he concentred all my attention on himself. Slowly he rose,
all his hair bristling, and stood perfectly rigid, and with the same
wild stare. I had no time, however, to examine the dog. Presently my
servant emerged from his room; and if I ever saw horror in the human
face, it was then. I should not have recognized him had we met in the
streets, so altered was every lineament. He passed by me quickly, saying
in a whisper that seemed scarcely to come from his lips, “Run! run! it
is after me!” He gained the door to the landing, pulled it open, and
rushed forth. I followed him into the landing involuntarily, calling him
to stop; but, without heeding me, he bounded down the stairs, clinging
to the balusters and taking several steps at a time. I heard, where I
stood, the street door open, heard it again clap to. I was left alone in
the haunted house.
It was but for a moment that I remained undecided whether or not to
follow my servant; pride and curiosity alike forbade so dastardly a
flight. I re-entered my room, closing the door after me, and proceeded
cautiously into the interior chamber. I encountered nothing to justify
my servant’s terror. I again carefully examined the walls, to see if
there were any concealed door. I could find no trace of one,--not even a
seam in the dull-brown paper with which the room was hung. How then had
the THING, whatever it was, which had so scared him, obtained ingress,
except through my own chamber?
I returned to my room, shut and locked the door that opened upon the
interior one, and stood on the hearth, expectant and prepared. I now
perceived that the dog had slunk into an angle of the wall, and was
pressing close against it, as if literally striving to force his way
into it. I approached the animal and spoke to it; the poor brute was
evidently beside itself with terror. It showed all its teeth, the slaver
dropping from its jaws, and would certainly have bitten me if I had
touched it. It did not seem to recognize me. Whoever has seen at the
Zoölogical Gardens a rabbit fascinated by a serpent, cowering in a
corner, may form some idea of the anguish which the dog exhibited.
Finding all efforts to soothe the animal in vain, and fearing that his
bite might be as venomous in that state as if in the madness of
hydrophobia, I left him alone, placed my weapons on the table beside the
fire, seated myself, and recommenced my Macaulay.
Perhaps, in order not to appear seeking credit for a courage, or rather
a coolness, which the reader may conceive I exaggerate, I may be
pardoned if I pause to indulge in one or two egotistical remarks.
As I hold presence of mind, or what is called courage, to be precisely
proportioned to familiarity with the circumstances that lead to it, so I
should say that I had been long sufficiently familiar with all
experiments that appertain to the marvellous. I had witnessed many very
extraordinary phenomena in various parts of the world,--phenomena that
would be either totally disbelieved if I stated them, or ascribed to
supernatural agencies. Now, my theory is, that the supernatural is the
impossible, and that what is called supernatural is only a something in
the laws of nature of which we have been hitherto ignorant. Therefore,
if a ghost rise before me, I have not the right to say, “So, then, the
supernatural is possible,” but rather, “So, then, the apparition of a
ghost is, contrary to received opinion, within the laws of nature,
namely, not supernatural.”
Now, in all that I had hitherto witnessed, and indeed in all the wonders
which the amateurs of mystery in our age record as facts, a material
living agency is always required. On the Continent you will find still
magicians who assert that they can raise spirits. Assume for the moment
that they assert truly, still the living material form of the magician
is present; and he is the material agency by which, from some
constitutional peculiarities, certain strange phenomena are represented
to your natural senses.
Accept, again, as truthful the tales of spirit manifestation in
America,--musical or other sounds, writings on paper, produced by no
discernible hand, articles of furniture moved without apparent human
agency, or the actual sight and touch of hands, to which no bodies seem
to belong,--still there must be found the medium, or living being, with
constitutional peculiarities capable of obtaining these signs. In fine,
in all such marvels, supposing even that there is no imposture, there
must be a human being like ourselves, by whom or through whom the
effects presented to human beings are produced. It is so with the now
familiar phenomena of mesmerism or electro-biology; the mind of the
person operated on is affected through a material living agent. Nor,
supposing it true that a mesmerized patient can respond to the will or
passes of a mesmerizer a hundred miles distant, is the response less
occasioned by a material being. It may be through a material fluid, call
it Electric, call it Odic, call it what you will, which has the power of
traversing space and passing obstacles, that the material effect is
communicated from one to the other. Hence, all that I had hitherto
witnessed, or expected to witness, in this strange house, I believed to
be occasioned through some agency or medium as mortal as myself; and
this idea necessarily prevented the awe with which those who regard as
supernatural things that are not within the ordinary operations of
nature might have been impressed by the adventures of that memorable
night.
As, then, it was my conjecture that all that was presented, or would be
presented, to my senses, must originate in some human being gifted by
constitution with the power so to present them, and having some motive
so to do, I felt an interest in my theory which, in its way, was rather
philosophical than superstitious. And I can sincerely say that I was in
as tranquil a temper for observation as any practical experimentalist
could be in awaiting the effects of some rare, though perhaps perilous,
chemical combination. Of course, the more I kept my mind detached from
fancy, the more the temper fitted for observation would be obtained; and
I therefore riveted eye and thought on the strong daylight sense in the
page of my Macaulay.
I now became aware that something interposed between the page and the
light: the page was overshadowed. I looked up and I saw what I shall
find it very difficult, perhaps impossible, to describe.
It was a darkness shaping itself out of the air in very undefined
outline. I cannot say it was of a human form, and yet it had more of a
resemblance to a human form, or rather shadow, than anything else. As it
stood, wholly apart and distinct from the air and the light around it,
its dimensions seemed gigantic; the summit nearly touched the ceiling.
While I gazed, a feeling of intense cold seized me. An iceberg before me
could not more have chilled me; nor could the cold of an iceberg have
been more purely physical. I feel convinced that it was not the cold
caused by fear. As I continued to gaze, I thought--but this I cannot say
with precision--that I distinguished two eyes looking down on me from
the height. One moment I seemed to distinguish them clearly, the next
they seemed gone; but two rays of a pale blue light frequently shot
through the darkness, as from the height on which I half believed, half
doubted, that I had encountered the eyes.
I strove to speak; my voice utterly failed me. I could only think to
myself, “Is this fear? it is _not_ fear!” I strove to rise, in vain; I
felt as if weighed down by an irresistible force. Indeed, my impression
was that of an immense and overwhelming power opposed to my volition;
that sense of utter inadequacy to cope with a force beyond men’s, which
one may feel _physically_ in a storm at sea, in a conflagration, or when
confronting some terrible wild beast, or rather, perhaps, the shark of
the ocean, I felt _morally_. Opposed to my will was another will, as far
superior to its strength as storm, fire, and shark are superior in
material force to the force of men.
And now, as this impression grew on me, now came, at last,
horror,--horror to a degree that no words can convey. Still I retained
pride, if not courage; and in my own mind I said, “This is horror, but
it is not fear; unless I fear, I cannot be harmed; my reason rejects
this thing; it is an illusion, I do not fear.” With a violent effort I
succeeded at last in stretching out my hand towards the weapon on the
table; as I did so, on the arm and shoulder I received a strange shock,
and my arm fell to my side powerless. And now, to add to my horror, the
light began slowly to wane from the candles; they were not, as it were,
extinguished, but their flame seemed very gradually withdrawn; it was
the same with the fire, the light was extracted from the fuel; in a few
minutes the room was in utter darkness. The dread that came over me to
be thus in the dark with that dark thing, whose power was so intensely
felt, brought a reaction of nerve. In fact, terror had reached that
climax, that either my senses must have deserted me, or I must have
burst through the spell. I did burst through it. I found voice, though
the voice was a shriek. I remember that I broke forth with words like
these, “I do not fear, my soul does not fear”; and at the same time I
found strength to rise. Still in that profound gloom I rushed to one of
the windows, tore aside the curtain, flung open the shutters; my first
thought was, LIGHT. And when I saw the moon, high, clear, and calm, I
felt a joy that almost compensated for the previous terror. There was
the moon, there was also the light from the gas-lamps in the deserted,
slumberous street. I turned to look back into the room; the moon
penetrated its shadow very palely and partially, but still there was
light. The dark thing, whatever it might be, was gone; except that I
could yet see a dim shadow, which seemed the shadow of that shade,
against the opposite wall.
My eye now rested on the table, and from under the table (which was
without cloth or cover, an old mahogany round table) rose a hand,
visible as far as the wrist. It was a hand, seemingly, as much of flesh
and blood as my own, but the hand of an aged person, lean, wrinkled,
small too, a woman’s hand. That hand very softly closed on the two
letters that lay on the table; hand and letters both vanished. Then came
the same three loud measured knocks I had heard at the bed-head before
this extraordinary drama had commenced.
As these sounds slowly ceased, I felt the whole room vibrate sensibly;
and at the far end rose, as from the floor, sparks or globules like
bubbles of light, many-colored,--green, yellow, fire-red, azure,--up and
down, to and fro, hither, thither, as tiny will-o’-the-wisps the sparks
moved, slow or swift, each at its own caprice. A chair (as in the
drawing-room below) was now advanced from the wall without apparent
agency, and placed at the opposite side of the table. Suddenly, as forth
from the chair, grew a shape, a woman’s shape. It was distinct as a
shape of life, ghastly as a shape of death. The face was that of youth,
with a strange, mournful beauty; the throat and shoulders were bare, the
rest of the form in a loose robe of cloudy white. It began sleeking its
long yellow hair, which fell over its shoulders; its eyes were not
turned toward me, but to the door; it seemed listening, watching,
waiting. The shadow of the shade in the background grew darker; and
again I thought I beheld the eyes gleaming out from the summit of the
shadow, eyes fixed upon that shape.
As if from the door, though it did not open, grew out another shape,
equally distinct, equally ghastly,--a man’s shape, a young man’s. It was
in the dress of the last century, or rather in a likeness of such dress;
for both the male shape and the female, though defined, were evidently
unsubstantial, impalpable,--simulacra, phantasms; and there was
something incongruous, grotesque, yet fearful, in the contrast between
the elaborate finery, the courtly precision of that old-fashioned garb,
with its ruffles and lace and buckles, and the corpse-like aspect and
ghost-like stillness of the flitting wearer. Just as the male shape
approached the female, the dark shadow darted from the wall, all three
for a moment wrapped in darkness. When the pale light returned, the two
phantoms were as if in the grasp of the shadow that towered between
them, and there was a blood-stain on the breast of the female; and the
phantom male was leaning on its phantom sword, and blood seemed
trickling fast from the ruffles, from the lace; and the darkness of the
intermediate shadow swallowed them up, they were gone. And again the
bubbles of light shot, and sailed, and undulated, growing thicker and
thicker and more wildly confused in their movements.
The closet door to the right of the fireplace now opened, and from the
aperture came the form of a woman, aged. In her hand she held
letters,--the very letters over which I had seen _the_ hand close; and
behind her I heard a footstep. She turned round as if to listen, and
then she opened the letters and seemed to read: and over her shoulder I
saw a livid face, the face as of a man long drowned,--bloated, bleached,
seaweed tangled in its dripping hair; and at her feet lay a form as of a
corpse, and beside the corpse cowered a child, a miserable, squalid
child, with famine in its cheeks and fear in its eyes. And as I looked
in the old woman’s face, the wrinkles and lines vanished, and it became
a face of youth,--hard-eyed, stony, but still youth; and the shadow
darted forth and darkened over these phantoms, as it had darkened over
the last.
Nothing now was left but the shadow, and on that my eyes were intently
fixed, till again eyes grew out of the shadow,--malignant, serpent eyes.
And the bubbles of light again rose and fell, and in their disordered,
irregular, turbulent maze mingled with the wan moonlight. And now from
these globules themselves, as from the shell of an egg, monstrous things
burst out; the air grew filled with them; larvæ so bloodless and so
hideous that I can in no way describe them, except to remind the reader
of the swarming life which the solar microscope brings before his eyes
in a drop of water,--things transparent, supple, agile, chasing each
other, devouring each other,--forms like naught ever beheld by the naked
eye. As the shapes were without symmetry, so their movements were
without order. In their very vagrancies there was no sport; they came
round me and round, thicker and faster and swifter, swarming over my
head, crawling over my right arm, which was outstretched in involuntary
command against all evil beings. Sometimes I felt myself touched, but
not by them; invisible hands touched me. Once I felt the clutch as of
cold, soft fingers at my throat. I was still equally conscious that if I
gave way to fear I should be in bodily peril, and I concentred all my
faculties in the single focus of resisting, stubborn will. And I turned
my sight from the shadow, above all from those strange serpent
eyes,--eyes that had now become distinctly visible. For there, though in
naught else around me, I was aware that there was a will, and a will of
intense, creative, working evil, which might crush down my own.
The pale atmosphere in the room began now to redden as if in the air of
some near conflagration. The larvæ grew lurid as things that live in
fire. Again the room vibrated; again were heard the three measured
knocks; and again all things were swallowed up in the darkness of the
dark shadow, as if out of that darkness all had come, into that darkness
all returned.
As the gloom receded, the shadow was wholly gone. Slowly as it had been
withdrawn, the flame grew again into the candles on the table, again
into the fuel in the grate. The whole room came once more calmly,
healthfully into sight.
The two doors were still closed, the door communicating with the
servant’s room still locked. In the corner of the wall, into which he
had convulsively niched himself, lay the dog. I called to him,--no
movement; I approached,--the animal was dead; his eyes protruded, his
tongue out of his mouth, the froth gathered round his jaws. I took him
in my arms; I brought him to the fire; I felt acute grief for the loss
of my poor favorite, acute self-reproach; I accused myself of his death;
I imagined he had died of fright. But what was my surprise on finding
that his neck was actually broken,--actually twisted out of the
vertebræ. Had this been done in the dark? Must it not have been done by
a hand human as mine? Must there not have been a human agency all the
while in that room? Good cause to suspect it. I cannot tell. I cannot do
more than state the fact fairly; the reader may draw his own inference.
Another surprising circumstance,--my watch was restored to the table
from which it had been so mysteriously withdrawn; but it had stopped at
the very moment it was so withdrawn; nor, despite all the skill of the
watchmaker, has it ever gone since: that is, it will go in a strange,
erratic way for a few hours, and then comes to a dead stop; it is
worthless.
Nothing more chanced for the rest of the night; nor, indeed, had I long
to wait before the dawn broke. Not till it was broad daylight did I quit
the haunted house. Before I did so, I revisited the little blind room in
which my servant and I had been for a time imprisoned. I had a strong
impression, for which I could not account, that from that room had
originated the mechanism of the phenomena, if I may use the term, which
had been experienced in my chamber; and though I entered it now in the
clear day, with the sun peering through the filmy window, I still felt,
as I stood on its floor, the creep of the horror which I had first
experienced there the night before, and which had been so aggravated by
what had passed in my own chamber. I could not, indeed, bear to stay
more than half a minute within those walls. I descended the stairs, and
again I heard the footfall before me; and when I opened the street door
I thought I could distinguish a very low laugh. I gained my own home,
expecting to find my runaway servant there. But he had not presented
himself; nor did I hear more of him for three days, when I received a
letter from him, dated from Liverpool, to this effect:--
“HONORED SIR,--I humbly entreat your pardon, though I can scarcely
hope that you will think I deserve it, unless--which Heaven
forbid!--you saw what I did. I feel that it will be years before I
can recover myself; and as to being fit for service, it is out of
the question. I am therefore going to my brother-in-law at
Melbourne. The ship sails to-morrow. Perhaps the long voyage may
set me up. I do nothing now but start and tremble, and fancy it is
behind me. I humbly beg you, honored sir, to order my clothes, and
whatever wages are due to me, to be sent to my mother’s at
Walworth: John knows her address.”
The letter ended with additional apologies, somewhat incoherent, and
explanatory details as to effects that had been under the writer’s
charge.
This flight may perhaps warrant a suspicion that the man wished to go to
Australia, and had been somehow or other fraudulently mixed up with the
events of the night. I say nothing in refutation of that conjecture;
rather, I suggest it as one that would seem to many persons the most
probable solution of improbable occurrences. My own theory remained
unshaken. I returned in the evening to the house, to bring away in a
hack cab the things I had left there, with my poor dog’s body. In this
task I was not disturbed, nor did any incident worth note befall me,
except that still, on ascending and descending the stairs, I heard the
same footfall in advance. On leaving the house, I went to Mr. J----’s.
He was at home. I returned him the keys, told him that my curiosity was
sufficiently gratified, and was about to relate quickly what had passed,
when he stopped me and said, though with much politeness, that he had no
longer any interest in a mystery which none had ever solved.
I determined at least to tell him of the two letters I had read, as well
as of the extraordinary manner in which they had disappeared; and I then
inquired if he thought they had been addressed to the woman who had died
in the house, and if there were anything in her early history which
could possibly confirm the dark suspicions to which the letters gave
rise. Mr. J---- seemed startled, and, after musing a few moments,
answered: “I know but little of the woman’s earlier history, except, as
I before told you, that her family were known to mine. But you revive
some vague reminiscences to her prejudice. I will make inquiries, and
inform you of their result. Still, even if we could admit the popular
superstition that a person who had been either the perpetrator or the
victim of dark crimes in life could revisit, as a restless spirit, the
scene in which those crimes had been committed, I should observe that
the house was infested by strange sights and sounds before the old woman
died. You smile; what would you say?”
“I would say this: that I am convinced, if we could get to the bottom of
these mysteries, we should find a living, human agency.”
“What! you believe it is all an imposture? For what object?”
“Not an imposture, in the ordinary sense of the word. If suddenly I were
to sink into a deep sleep, from which you could not awake me, but in
that deep sleep could answer questions with an accuracy which I could
not pretend to when awake,--tell you what money you had in your pocket,
nay, describe your very thoughts,--it is not necessarily an imposture,
any more than it is necessarily supernatural. I should be, unconsciously
to myself, under a mesmeric influence, conveyed to me from a distance by
a human being who had acquired power over me by previous _rapport_.”
“Granting mesmerism, so far carried, to be a fact, you are right. And
you would infer from this that a mesmerizer might produce the
extraordinary effects you and others have witnessed over inanimate
objects,--fill the air with sights and sounds?”